Diabetics & Poodles

Photo by Berend de Kort

Across the street from my trailer, in a small silver Airstream, lived an enormous man named Jerry, his wife, two standard poodles, and a myna bird. They didn't have a chain-link fence around their trailer space like mine, which I considered an open invitation to visit whenever I wanted.

The poodles, Bear and Fancy, adored me. They’d wag their tails and lick my face because they were excited to see me. I'd scratch them underneath their collars, where they couldn't reach, and make them do tricks for dog biscuits. 

Attached to the side of the Airstream was a green and white striped canvas awning shading a large rectangle of bright green Astroturf.

During the heat of the day, Jerry and his wife relaxed in lawn chairs, reading books and listening to country music on their transistor radio. Bear and Fancy, sprawled at their feet with their tongues hanging out.

George, the myna bird, bounced around in his cage, which hung from the awning. He was a feisty creature with a terrible vocabulary. Mom often complained that George cussed like a sailor and that teaching a bird such profanity wasn't right. She could hear him from the kitchen whenever our window were open.

One day, Jerry invited me inside his Airstream to keep him company while he made his lunch. It was a hot summer afternoon, and I'd just finished swimming in the Happy Acres pool. I wore my navy blue sailor swimsuit, flip-flops, and my towel wrapped around my waist. Inside, the Airstream felt hot and stuffy, crowded with clutter, and smelled of cigarettes. I scooted into the kitchen booth and watched Jerry struggle to open a can of Campbell's tomato soup with a can opener. He said his fingers didn't work right anymore.

Jerry mentioned he had diabetes and couldn't eat sugar like he used to. He described it as a terrible affliction and wanted me to look at his stollen, purple feet. I slid out of the kitchen booth to examine them, noticing his toenails looked like potato chips. Jerry said he'd also lost feeling in his fingers.

I felt at a loss for words, distracted by how Jerry, his wife, and their two standard poodles could possibly fit into such a small, crowded trailer. 

Jerry stuck his fingers in the boiling soup, stirring it, and laughed, saying he couldn't feel a damn thing.

After that day, I never went inside Jerry's Airstream again. I preferred playing outside with the poodles and cussing with George.